CHAPTER FOUR: DEPARTURE
1217 Words
The first thing I packed was my passport.
The second was regret.
Not because I was leaving but because I had somehow agreed to spend six weeks on a billionaire's yacht with a man who was rapidly becoming an unsolved mystery.
By the time Saturday arrived, my apartment looked like a luggage store had exploded.
Two suitcases lay open on the floor.
A carry-on sat beside them.
Three different piles of clothing occupied my couch.
Emma stood in the middle of the chaos with both hands on her hips.
"You own entirely too much black."
I glanced up from where I was rolling a blouse into my suitcase.
"I live in New York."
"You are going to Greece."
"I am still a New Yorker in Greece."
Emma picked up a dress.
A very expensive dress.
One I'd bought three years ago and never worn.
"This," she suggested, flinging the dress to me.
"No," I concluded, throwing it back to her.
I had grudgingly stuffed in the new bikinis she'd bought even though I knew it would return home the same way she folded them. Now she's bringing this trophy gown…
"Yes."
"No."
"Aria."
I pointed at the garment. "That dress requires confidence."
"Then borrow some."
"It also requires a social life."
"You'll be spending six weeks surrounded by billionaires."
I groaned. "Please stop saying that."
"What?"
"'Billionaires.'"
"That's literally what he is."
"I know."
"Then why does it bother you?"
I zipped one suitcase shut.
Because it did bother me. Maybe because the word carried assumptions.
Power.
Privilege.
Distance.
The kind of distance money created between people.
The kind I'd spent years writing about.
The kind I didn't particularly trust.
"I'm not interested in him."
Emma's grin appeared immediately.
"Who said anything about being interested?"
I threw a pillow at her.
She laughed.
Unfortunately, so did I.
---
The next morning, Manhattan was wrapped in gray clouds.
The city looked sleepy and muted, almost reluctant to wake.
I arrived at JFK Airport an hour before my flight.
A habit developed from years of travel. Nothing ruins a trip faster than sprinting through an airport.
I checked my luggage and headed toward security. Then settled near a window overlooking the runway.
Travel had always fascinated me.
Not the destinations.
The transitions.
The strange in-between places.
Airports.
Train stations.
Harbors.
Places where thousands of lives briefly crossed before continuing in different directions.
As a child, I'd loved imagining where everyone was going:
The businessman rushing through security.
The exhausted mother carrying a sleeping child.
The backpacker with a map sticking out of his pocket.
Every traveler carried a story.
Most people never noticed.
I always did.
That was probably why I became a journalist.
My flight boarded shortly after noon and seven hours later, I was descending toward Athens.
I pressed my forehead against the window.
The Aegean Sea stretched beneath us.
Endless blue.
Tiny islands scattered across the water like forgotten pieces of a puzzle.
The sight stole my breath.
Not because it was just beautiful.
Although it was.
Because it reminded me why I traveled in the first place.
Not for photographs.
Not for articles.
Not for social media.
But for moments like this.
Moments when the world suddenly felt bigger than your problems.
Bigger than heartbreak.
Bigger than yourself.
The plane landed just after sunset.
Warm air greeted me the moment I stepped outside the terminal.
It was different from New York, softer, and carried traces of salt and earth.
A driver waited near arrivals holding a sign.
#WEST#
Simple.
Efficient.
Very billionaire.
"Ms. West?"
I nodded as I walked towards him.
"Welcome to Greece." The driver's weathered face softened into a smile as he reached for my suitcases.
His accent was thick, his tone warm enough to cut through the exhaustion of a seven-hour flight.
I murmured my thanks, following him to where his car was waiting.
The ride toward the marina took nearly forty minutes.
Athens glowed beneath the night sky.
Ancient history standing shoulder-to-shoulder with modern life.
Ruins illuminated in the distance.
Busy cafés spilling onto sidewalks.
Scooters weaving through traffic.
I found myself smiling.
Already, I wanted to write.
That was always a good sign.
The marina appeared shortly before ten.
And suddenly I understood where some of Lucas Moretti's money had gone.
Rows of luxury yachts lined the harbor.
Some impressive.
Others absurd.
Then I saw the Aurora.
My breath caught.
It wasn't merely large. It was magnificent.
The vessel gleamed beneath the marina lights.
Elegant rather than flashy.
Powerful without trying to prove it.
The sort of yacht that made every neighboring yacht seem insecure.
"Good Lord."
The driver laughed softly. "Most people have that reaction."
I could see why.
The Aurora looked less like a yacht and more like a floating luxury hotel.
Crew members moved across the deck with practiced efficiency.
Lights glowed warmly from inside.
For a brief moment, excitement overwhelmed everything else— the heartbreak, the mystery, the uncertainty.
Adventure was waiting.
Then I remembered who owned the yacht, and the excitement immediately developed sharp edges.
The driver retrieved my luggage just as a crew member greeted me at the dock.
Professional. Polite. Immaculately dressed.
"Ms. West, welcome aboard."
The gangway stretched before me, making me tighten my grip on my carry-on.
One step.
Then another.
And another.
The yacht shifted gently beneath my feet.
The scent of the sea surrounded me.
For the first time, the assignment felt real.
Not an email.
Not an itinerary.
Reality.
I was here.
A crew member escorted me through the vessel.
The interior was breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, polished wood, soft lighting and quiet luxury.
Nothing felt excessive.
Everything felt expensive.
Dangerously expensive.
“This will be your room,” he announced shortly, opening a door.
My jaw slacked as I stood in stunned silence.
My suite was larger than my Manhattan apartment!
The bedroom alone could comfortably fit my entire living room.
"Your luggage will be delivered shortly," the crew member said, bringing me back from my world.
"Thank you." I willed myself to say.
"If you need anything, please let us know."
Anything.
I suspected ‘anything’ meant something different on a yacht like this.
The door closed behind him and silence settled over the room.
I approached the balcony, opening the glass doors with a flourish.
There was a furnished chair with a glass table at one end and a recliner at the other end. The sea view was a plus.
I already knew this would be my favorite place.
I stared in awe seeing the Mediterranean stretched into darkness beyond the marina.
A warm breeze brushed against my skin and suddenly the magnitude of what I'd done hit me.
Six weeks.
No familiar faces.
No Emma.
No Maya.
No New York.
Just me, the sea and Lucas Moretti.
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
I frowned. Who could possibly—I opened the door.
A woman stood outside.
She was elegant, blonde, beautiful and unmistakably annoyed. She couldn't have been older than thirty.
This sophisticated woman looked me over as though she'd ordered champagne and had been served tap water.
"So." Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"You're the journalist."
Every instinct I possessed immediately went on alert.
Because that wasn't a greeting.
It was a warning.
- Writer
